I originally wrote this post for culture magazine. It was published on May 20, 2014.

When the minibus slows down, approaching the border in Bendery, my heartbeat accelerates. I’m mostly just giddy; it’s sunny, 70 degrees, the trees and flowers have just blossomed, I’m on spring break, and we’ve just passed a bunch of guys in KGB uniforms. Gripping my passport and meticulously completed immigration card, I shuffle alongside babushkas and guys in leather jackets toward the notorious border crossing into Transnistria (or Trans-Dniestr, or Приднестровие).

Yes, spring break. While my classmates don bikinis and flock to the Black Sea beaches, I have decided to travel east from my current home in Romania, through Moldova and Ukraine, in search of cheese.

Granted, my timing is a bit odd. The border crossing into this pro-Russian autonomous breakaway region of Moldova has been heavily guarded by both Russian and Moldovan troops since the war between the two parts of the country ended in 1992. Famous for corrupt and unpredictable guards, the crossing is even more tense than usual these days given the potential spillover of problems from next-door Ukraine.

Journalists are flocking here to feature what may be ‘the next Crimea,’ but they usually recount stories of bribery or rejection at the border. Since Transnistria is not an officially recognized country (it’s often described as a mafia-run hub of human and weapons trafficking), it’s difficult to know what to expect. We’ve heard that the border crossing has been closed to all foreigners since a week before, and the website for the only hostel in the city of Tiraspol has been mysteriously shut down. So we’re nervous. Sure, I’m only a cheese journalist, but I’ve decided to avoid ‘the J word’ altogether and tell the border guard that I’m simply dying to visit the Kvint brandy distillery.

As an impassioned traveler and turophile, I like to use cheese as a lens. Maybe I’m like a taxonomist, or a linguist; I think that observing the similarities and differences between species, or between languages, or between cheeses, can tell us something bigger about the world. Can the cheeses of Transnistria and its neighboring regions of Moldova and Ukraine reveal something about a common Soviet past? About the current political tensions? I’m not sure what I will find, but in any case, I’m hungry. For knowledge, experience, and cheese. And food has a funny way of building connections in the unlikeliest of places.

“So… you like Brandy?” asks the giant Transnistrian border guard, the hammer and sickle emblem of his uniform shining in the fluorescent light of the questioning area, where I’ve been directed to the side.

“Yes sir.”

“You …. like Vodka?”

“Yes!” I reply, and feeling a boost of confidence, or insanity, I respond: “do you?”

“Of course.” he replies, “but prefer beer.”

“I like beer too. Pivo.” I say, shamelessly flaunting the full extent of my Russian skills. He smiles.

“What is name of father?”

I tell him my dad’s name, obediently. He makes me repeat it. And with that, I am free to explore the cheeses of Transnistria until exactly 12:42 pm the next day.

Dairy market in Chisinau; garden in Tiraspol

The Piata Centrala market I’d attended the day before in Chișinău, Moldova, was huge. Sprawling outdoor booths surrounded many buildings, each with different themes. The cheese room was blue and white, with giant paintings of grazing animals on the walls. In one corner, aged and smoked cheeses sat behind glass cases, but most of the room was filled with heaping blocks of fresh cheeses, sitting exposed on counters in front of old ladies in white bonnets. Surrounding the giant heaps were buckets of smântână, or sour cream, and plastic water bottles refilled with raw milk and homemade kvass (fermented drink made from rye bread).

The market I find in Tiraspol, Transnistria is smaller and slightly less busy, but similarly designed. At both markets, competition is so fierce that the old ladies yell “goat’s cheese!” “sheep’s cheese!” and hold out samples. Despite the exclusive use of Russian language in this region, the homemade cheeses are identical: fresh, firm, and salty, with a sheepy tang. The ladies behind the mounds of cheese appear identical, too: strong hands, colorful sweaters, and frowns that–if I’m patient and respectful – gradually transform into smiles.

The only difference in the Tiraspol market is that security guards won’t let me take pictures. And that I haven’t yet figured out how to get cash with which to buy the cheese; since Transnistria is not an officially recognized country, its currency can’t be exchanged anywhere else in the world, and ATMs in the city only dispense Russian rubles or American 100 dollar bills.

My friends and I spend the day strolling past Lenin statues and Soviet monuments, and a construction site where the headquarters of Putin’s political party are being constructed. We drink kvass from street stands, snacking on oblong puff pastries stuffed with dill and cottage cheese. Eventually we end up in the nearby village of Ternovka, where old ladies tend to their sprawling gardens, and we visit a random, enormous Spirit Museum that showcases 7 floors of bottles of alcohol from around the world. We drink beer and eat delicious sour-cream-based Russian soup at a restaurant called Plăcinte. And I find my Kvint brandy; it’s aged for six years, it’s 3 dollars a bottle, and – like the Transnistrian border crossing – it’s surprisingly smooth.

Kids in Tiraspol; Transnistrian cognacs in the Spirit Museum

After my 24 hours expire, I move on to Odessa, Ukraine, where I spend the morning drinking tea in the sun at a peaceful demonstration. Then I bumble around trying to find my way through the giant Privoz Market, Georgian-Sulguni-cheese-smothered bread in hand, before dining and reading old Soviet atlases in cozy restaurant Druzya I Pivo. Odessa is beautiful, with great restaurants, ubiquitous mobile espresso stands and sprawling parks by the sea.

I head back to Moldova on a bumpy night bus, next to an old lady with gold teeth who forces her sweet cheese-filled blini (blintzes) upon me and laughs heartily each time she drops her 2-liter plastic bottle of beer on the bus floor.

Two weeks later, my images of sunny Chișinău, Tiraspol, and Odessa have been blurred by the harsh ones on the news stations: protests, arrests, fires, and deaths.

I’m still not sure if the ‘cheese lens’ gave me any special insight into the socio-political particularities of these regions, but I now understand this: If you go there looking for instability and political conflict, you might find it. If you go looking for cheese, you’ll find not only cheese; you’ll find laughing old ladies, friendly border guards, thriving markets, bountiful gardens, and kind people who want to live in peace.

It doesn’t mean that the media should ignore the bad things, but it is certainly worth it to stop and enjoy the good ones.

Outside of Tours in the very typical French campagne, there’s an old chateau that hides a surprise. Actually, the surprise is hiding behind the chateau, in its old stables. Surrounding a courtyard and half-abandoned, the stables haven’t housed cows in quite some time. But something is living there. And its name is Aspergillus oryzae! Yes, the “national fungus” of Japan, otherwise known as koji. And the koji is hard at work, transforming soybeans into traditional Japanese miso.

Takayoshi in his garden, green even in December

Well the stables also house a family, a family from Japan. Takayoshi and Akiko Hirai and their two small sons have renovated the decrepit French building themselves, turning it into a beautiful home in simple, airy Japanese style. Their home is surrounded with bountiful gardens containing apricot and apple trees, honeybees and vegetables, many of which Takayoshi uses in his production of traditional Japanese products for his enterprise Sanga.

During my sojourn in Angers I was studying traditional French foods. But this usually happened in the classroom, or on a tour of a production facility. I didn’t often have the chance to get my hands dirty, to work on a farm or to make cheese, but this is what I love best, and by December I was missing it. So when I went with a Japanese friend to learn how to make miso from the Hirais, I plunged my hands into the soybeans and mashed them with the utmost enthusiasm.

On a cold December morning, Takayoshi picked us up from the end of the tramline in Tours and drove us about 20 minutes to his home. After having tea with the family and a Franco-Japanese couple that had traveled in from Paris, we donned bandanas and moved to a production facility in the corner of the house.

Freshly boiled soybeans were cooling down as Takayoshi explained the production process. We’d be mixing the soybeans with a bunch of salt and two types of koji: white koji (made from rice) and brown koji (made from barley). Koji is made by inoculating the cooked grains with Aspergillus oryzae cultures. When the koji is mixed with other ingredients, in our case the soybeans and salt, the cultures break down carbohydrates into amino acids, fatty acids and simple sugars that add incomparable flavor and depth to the final product.

One of these amino acids is glutamate, responsible for the savory taste known as umami. Umami is the name for the rounded and deep taste that is also found in meat, mushrooms and aged cheeses like parmesan (side note: I learned that Japanese people don’t really use ‘umami’ in that specific way; it translates simply as ‘delicious taste’). The miso fermentation process is also known to create beneficial compounds such as cancer-preventing isoflavones.

After mixing the salt, soybeans and koji by hand to ensure that there are no more lumps, we pressed the mixture it firmly into plastic buckets, avoiding any air holes lest the mold proliferate too much inside (the addition of salt into the soybeans helps to control this mold and enable a slow, steady fermentation). After covering the surface with an extra layer of salt, it was time to wait—at least one year—until the miso would finally be ready.

According to Takayoshi, industrial miso producers in Japan use tricks like ‘aging’ the miso at a very high temperature to speed up the fermentation process. But slow fermentation results in richer, more complex flavors. Traditionally, miso was produced during winter when fewer airborne microorganisms were present and when temperatures were cool, allowing for a slow start to fermentation.

I realized that making miso is a lot like making cheese; we start with a few simple ingredients, but by altering any step in the process, either in production or maturation, we can create infinitely different results.

Clockwise, from top left: mixing ingredients; finishing with salt; Sophia and Wakako with our finished bucket; an aged red miso.

Misos are shaped first by their ingredients; the more koji, the sweeter the miso. Differences between misos are also played out between regions of Japan, with barley-based varieties produced on the island of Kyushu, and dark, 3-year-aged varieties from Nagoya, for example. And it’s not just regional tradition that affects the final product; in contrast to industrially produced miso, homemade misos vary from one home to another, each mirroring its household’s specific microbial environment. Like in cheese affinage, the final product is dependent on a balanced ecosystem of microorganisms that has been able to flourish; longer-aged miso will have a notable presence of Lactobacilli, friendly bacteria that protect against pathogens in the food.

And the subtle differences can be tasted, as I realized when sampling a range of Takayoshi’s homemade white and red varieties, some aged up to 3 years. The older the miso, the deeper and more complex the taste. It reminds me of comparing a real Aceto Balsamico di Modena that’s been aged for over 12 years with a 1-year-old balsamic vinegar, or comparing a 36-month Parmigiano Reggiano with a younger parmesan. I’ve never been a patient person, but I’m learning that in the world of fermented foods, great things can only be created slowly.

And so the white bucket was closed and I left the Aspergillus to do the rest of the work. And as the sun went down we shared coffee and the heart-shaped biscuits that Akiko had just made with her sons. The biscuits, buttery and fresh out of the oven, reminded me that being impatient is silly; until my miso is ready, I have plenty of other delicious foods to keep me busy.

A year and a half ago, I was sitting with Grandma Helen at her kitchen table, sorting through a pile of meticulously cut and organized coupons. I’d go to Stop & Shop, she’d dictate the shopping list. 20 pork chops (definite overestimation). 5 packs of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls (because we had 5 coupons). Two packages of frozen vegetables (and make sure you get the tri-colored one with the carrots, peas and cauliflower. And get Stop & Shop brand string beans). Potatoes and cream and butter (obviously).

Approaching 94, she was finally beginning to feel old. Her Sunday and holiday dinners were increasingly rare, and the wafting smells of slow-roasting meat I’d associated with them becoming a distant a memory. She wanted to cook, but she couldn’t even lift a tea kettle. She was tiny and hunched and walked with a walker, but still had a spark and a drive to feed and to nurture, to throw a party. And I wanted to learn how to cook from my last grandparent before she was gone.

We decided to cook her famous pork chops. Because she was weak and easily tired, we’d spread it out over two days. The first day we’d shop, brown the chops and keep them overnight. The next day we’d cook them and invite the family over.

Her cuisine was unglamorous and uncomplicated, but I loved it because I was raised on it. When I was little and both my parents worked full-time, I spent every day at Grandma Helen’s house. She was like a mom, but cooler. Half & half in my Rice Krispies instead of milk. Unlimited sugar in my daily afternoon tea, and a giant tin of unlimited biscuits. Scrambled eggs that I begged my mother to make the way grandma did, but she never could (the secret: WAY too much butter). In a world obsessed with dieting, my grandma’s cooking was unapologetically centered on fat, sugar, and salt. Meat and potatoes were the centerpieces (and they were indescribably delicious); vegetables an afterthought. Usually we’d have some thawed frozen vegetables doused in butter and salt (“I’ve just discovered salad!” Grandma once told me excitedly at the ripe age of 92).

Not only did she spoil me with butter, she was also so much fun. Anyone who knew her could attest to her wild imagination, her dramatic enthusiasm, her sense of humor. When I was little we went on daily walks to the party supply store in the neighborhood strip mall, and we played board games during teatime while my grandpa napped. I so idolized Grandma that I would repeat things she said. One day, when I was about 3 years old, I sighed and said with a thick Irish brogue, “I have a hard life.” There was no question as to whom I was imitating.

Unlike me, my grandmother did have a hard life. She was the runt in an impoverished family of 12 kids. As a child she suffered unbelievable abuses at the hands of school teachers and family members—many of which she did not have the courage to speak about until late in her life. Her individuality was undermined; she never knew when her real birthday was, and when at the gates into America they translated her name “Nellie” into “Helen”, she calmly accepted the change. She came out of this childhood selfless, never taking for granted even the smallest acts of kindness. Only one time in their 50+ years of marriage did my Grandpa ever make her a cup of tea, and it was after she’d fallen off a chair in the basement, and unable to walk, crawled her way up the stairs. She talked about that all-to-rare act of generosity for years.

Instead, she spent most of her life nurturing other people. After coming to America in her late teens, she found work as a cook in the house of the Boston Mayor and Senator James Michael Curley. She helped to raise his children, and for the first time in her life, felt loved and appreciated by a family. She went on to raise four children of her own, and found work as a nurse’s aide, a job that came naturally to her and in which she was incredibly successful. Finally, of course, she helped to raise me and seven other grandchildren. All of the doting and nuturing she’d lacked as a child, she bestowed upon us.

Maybe it’s another testament to her modest upbringing that her amazing pork chops had surprisingly few ingredients: pork, butter, Crisco, salt, onions. Water (not wine) to deglaze the pan; water (not bouillon) to add to the roux for gravy. She stood next to me, hunched over, giving directions and enthusiastically praising and thanking me for each completed step. I realized why cooking with her was so important; she taught me to really brown the meat and not be impatient or afraid; she instructed me over and over to add more heaping spoonfuls of butter and Crisco, and cringing, I obeyed.

After putting a giant pan filled with 20 browned pork chops, melted fat and onions into the refrigerator, I left until the next day. I asked her when to come back in the morning, and she said, whenever I want. She never mentioned that the pork chops would need to cook for three hours.

When I strolled in at 11 am just an hour before our family’s arrival, she was freaking out. She was hobbling around the dining room with her walker, trying to switch the table to the formal dinner setting and move chairs around. I smelled the pork chops cooking.

I stopped in my tracks and thought: HOW did that giant dish get from the refrigerator to the oven? There was no way Helen could have lifted it herself.

Apparently, that morning she had used a cookie sheet to slide the casserole dish from the refrigerator onto the floor. She then used her walker to push the dish across the floor of the kitchen over to the oven. And somehow, using 110% of the remaining strength she possessed, she was able to bend down and pick up the dish and put it into the oven.

I love this story about her. She could have called me, or waited for me, but her selflessness, her reluctance to rescind her independence, was fierce. And she wasn’t upset, and didn’t make a big deal about the feat she’d accomplished, despite the fact that it had literally defied the laws of physics. Instead she worked tirelessly throughout the day to make sure the dinner went smoothly. It was delicious, and I only hope she’d stopped worrying about everyone else for long enough to really taste it. That, however, would have been unlike her.

Grandma died yesterday at 3 in the morning. 18 hours later I was sitting around a table with my friends, and we were eating her pork chops.

Things I thought about yesterday: my grandchildren eating these pork chops. Also, trying to be more like Grandma Helen. Cooking for people, taking care of people, and praising people, and nurturing people. Remembering that I have more strength than people might expect. And not being afraid to add another generous spoonful of butter.

Many of you know that some of the most delicious cheeses in the world can also smell the most, well, revolting. Indeed, cheese making and aging is a process of “controlled spoilage”, and it makes evolutionary sense that we’d be turned off when faced with something rotten.

It was Leon-Paul Fargue, a French surrealist poet, who described Camembert cheese as “les pieds de Dieu” – “the feet of God”. I love this characterization- it simultaneously highlights the divine sensation of eating this great cheese and the disgusting smell it produces. And even more, it brings up a truism that scientists are only beginning to explore- the correlation between stinky cheese and the body.

The other day I stumbled upon this New York Times article featuring a farmer and his 230 ‘happy’ cows. How does the author prove that they’re happy? They each have names. It reminded me of a conversation I had last week with my co-worker Laetitia. We were driving up to the Alpage (higher in altitude where the cows are kept during the summer) and talking about, you know, cow stuff. I was telling her about the huge dairy farms we have in the US and she said “Oh, I’ve heard about that. I heard that on some of the farms, the cows don’t even have names”.